


Quasar

by Senket



Category: Doctor Who, Torchwood
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s03e12 The Sound of Drums, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-26
Updated: 2010-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:52:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's everywhere. 4 beats and a rest. Ianto deals with losing Jack and gaining Harold Saxon's cursed drumbeat. Conversation in a coffee shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quasar

Four beats. Two rests. It was all starting to sound droningly familiar. He looked about madly. There were so many of them, all repeating that same beat. The man on the corner with his tin. The child in the grocery cart. He could feel his pupils dilating. He had to get out of here.

Get out to where, though? It was the same in the streets, the same in his flat watching the news or shows filmed recently, the same at work even, his coworkers tapping out the rhythm without noticing. And he would far rather avoid the countryside, for obvious reasons. Some things you didn't get over in less than a year.

He tried his best to walk blindly through the crowded city streets, summoning the best white noise he could. He clenched his eyes tight, relying purely on instinct for how to navigate. He'd be fine. No one dared cross a man walking down the street blindly, every muscle in his body held in tight reserve.

The problem with that solution, of course, was that the rack of sales clothes put out by the small shop on the corner was not a 'one'. He stumbled against it, careening sideways into a large and rather unhappy man. A strong hand pushed him back, and he tried too hard to steady himself, a sharp pain blasting through his head. His vision twisted, brightened, then returned slowly. Sensory overload. He shook his head violently, trying to erase the images filtering across his mind in fast progression. He nodded briefly in the direction of the offending hand, stumbling forward on his quest for a cup of coffee. Only one place to find one of those he could hold up to par.

The organic Brown Brew was just three blocks away, but he barely made it, squinting as the barista greeted him with cheery familiarity. "The usual, please, thank you." The young woman behind the counter laughed and asked him if anything was wrong when he shrunk into himself, glancing at the tiny table in the far corner. She was tapping out that infernal beat against the espresso machine. "No, nothing," he whimpered, backing into a booth, his head tucked low. He couldn't shake the images beating against the back of his eyes like so many waves.

He blinked, hard, glancing up to check for his steaming release. The barista had a hand on the owner's shoulder, the other gesturing surreptitiously in his direction. Her face held genuine concern. The owner picked his way around the little shop, greeting customers with a smile before sitting across from the cowering man, lined face settling into a frown. "Are you all right, Mr. Jones?"

"Please, sir," he answered through a tight jaw. "Call me Ianto."

"Stephen, then," he answered easily. "Did you lose your job?" He joked with a little grin. "Because you know I'll always give you one. You sure know plenty about this." He gestured to the area about them. It hadn't been hard to notice the way the young man cleaned after himself, always knew exactly how to order- and he'd recommended perfect drinks for other customers when a new barista hadn't known what to say, even helping her make them. "You never made me that cup you promised me one day."

Ianto smiled tersely. "Of course." He rose stiffly, glancing around the shop at the many hands tapping the beat. This blessed man in front of him held his hands loosely in his pockets. "Of course," he repeated to himself, finally making full eye contact, "I'll make one for you now, sir."

They stepped into the back room, and Ianto's shoulders sunk. He looked so tired. The sound of the blenders, the smell of the rich beans, encompassed him. Stephen placed his hand tentatively on Ianto's shoulder. "Hey...you sure you're alright? We can do this later, if--"

"What size did you want?" Ianto interrupted automatically, well practiced at meaningless deflections. You had to be, when you were hiding a woman in the basement of a particularly observant boss.

"Um..." Stephen stuttered, "tall. Thanks. Don't you want to know what I want?"

"No," came the forced reply, "I'm just--I'm just good at knowing--" Oh God, the tapping. "Just trust me, you'll--" Why wouldn't it stop? It was permeating the walls. It was everywhere. Broken sobs tore from his throat, a feral animal clawing through his subconscious.

"Better make that a venti..." He pressed a warm hand against Ianto's shoulder and the man shuddered beneath it.

"No," he breathed softly, stuttering through gulps of breath. "I can't- it's nothing to talk about. It's fine. Really it's fine. Stress."

The hand stayed on his shoulder, comforting in its added weight. He struggled under it, the feeling of pressure far more emotional than it should've been. He couldn't afford to explain what was wrong to this poor, pleasant man. He liked to avoid Retconning people as much as possible. If that wasn't enough, this problem... how could he explain it, even to Gwen? It was just that infernal sound. And technology. Ever since the Archangel network had been set up, he'd been getting increasing headaches from cellphones, from wifi, from... everything that used it. But he'd double-checked, triple-checked, and nothing untoward seemed to be coming from the satellite network. No one else seemed to be suffering. They all seemed more than happy with the new system. 'It's just some tapping, Ianto, what's the problem?' It was splitting his head in two.

He cleared his head, tried to look the man steadily in the eyes. "It shouldn't matter...it's just these noises. I hear them everywhere..." He smiled weakly. "You probably think I'm just a nutter, eh?"

Stephen regarded him gravely, shaking his head. "No...you're not crazy. With all the shit that keeps happening 'round here these past few years?" He came around behind Ianto, rubbing his shoulders gently. "No, not crazy--never crazy."

Ianto tensed again, dropping his head. The hands slid off his back quickly, a question clear in the man's silence. "Coffee? I promise I won't cry in it this time," he forced a feeble laugh.

"Ianto..."

"So really, as I was saying before, I'm just that good at profiling my coffee drinkers."

"You really don't--"

"I mean you've got your darkers, your creamers, your Americano gurus..."

"IANTO!"

"...yes?"

"Excuse me....but please. Shut up and sit down. You're not crazy."

He swallowed, worry and self-conscious dread clogging his throat. Where could he even start? He stayed near the machine, finishing the drink, lingering, shifting his feet. He let out a long breath at the expectant look, settling the cup before the older man, sitting across from him and staring at his laced fingers. His mouth worked- he'd open it to speak, consider, frown, lack words, close it again. Try once more. Nothing came out. He groaned, rubbing his temples. He smiled- nervous, tense, far away- and gestured at the mug.

Stephen lifted it with an obliging smile and took a sip. He stared piercingly into Ianto's eyes, then back at the coffee. His smile shifted into a full out grin. Ianto chuckled, the mood lifting.

"Now THAT," Stephen said, gesturing towards the mug, "is real coffee." He sipped again. "You're soon to become a very popular man, Mr. Jones."

"Mr. Barrows," Ianto nodded to him with a smirk. His face cleared, all business. "There's something happening. Something serious--and you may not believe me, but look around...or listen, more like it..." he muttered.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Nothing, nothing. It's uh..." He laughed, "It's tapping. You've heard it. You've even done it. We all have. There's a beat, pulsing through all of us...like a song stuck in your head, right? Everything seems to match it, like some sick coincidence. Except it's not coincidence. It can't be. Not like this."

The only response was a patient, unblinking stare. He looked away sharply, staring at the table's wood grain instead.

"I just can't figure out the source. It's driving me mad. And. I just don't have any support right now. Work's crazy, none of my coworkers have enough time to slow down and talk with me about this."

Stephen leaned back, cradling the ceramic mug protectively, close to his chest, cocking his head as he looked at Ianto searchingly. "I thought you had someone?"

Ianto startled, jerking back. "What? I never said-"

"Your look, that's all." He smiled, tightly, worry in the lines around his eyes. "I suppose that's changed then?"

"....Something like that."

Stephen gave him an appraising look, eyes squinted. He jerked his head once in recognition, and a suggestion for Ianto to continue.

Ianto stared for a second, a nervous laugh slipping out. "It was complicated. Wonderful, and painful, and...fleeting. And really complicated, in an entirely too simplistic sort of way. But I guess that's over now...I haven't seen..." he sighed, "It's been a while."

Stephen gave him an understanding smile, resting a palm over his hand. "You'll find someone new."

He smiled lopsidedly. "No time. Besides." His grin was more genuine now as he shook his head. "What about you? You haven't looked twice at anybody since Karen, and that was nine months ago."

"We were talking about you," he reminded the young man with a chuckle. He was wise enough to see the way Ianto's eyes had aged. He'd looked so burdened the first time the man had stepped into his shop, jeans and a tan jacket and looking defeated. It had been like walking with a shadow dragging behind his feet, wrapping around his ankles, only a glimmer of weak hope in the lines of his mouth. One day, he'd come in and ordered coffee after coffee, curling in the corner booth and refusing to talk to anyone, look at anyone. A few weeks later, it was like he was suddenly a twenty-something bloke for real, surprisingly light. Stephen had been astounded- a lover had been the only possible explanation. But now he was older than ever before.

Ianto's gaze darted away again, fingers fidgeting with his tie. "There's really no need. I should just go home and sleep it off."

Stephen's eyes twinkled. "Should, shouldn't...from what I've heard around town, since when does that really matter to a Torchwood bloke like yourself?" He nudged Ianto across the table, upon his shocked eyebrow raise. Ignoring his gaping mouth and obviously rampant succession of thoughts, he continued. "Oh don't be daft. A clever man like me? Didn't take long to ask around. Well now, feel a bit more like a jot of honesty, then?"

He flushed, sinking into his seat. Only a moment passed before he stood up suddenly, moving to the machine to brew himself a cup too, just to busy his hands. "For a secret organization," he grumbled childishly, "We're a really badly kept secret." He glanced over at the older man with an affectionate, if distant, smile. "I blame the boss for that. ...Well." He sighed, turning back to shiny chrome. "The old boss."

Stephen noticed the cast of his eyes, and nodded sagely. "Of course...the good old captain. Yeh, 'course I know about him too. He's a bit more flashy, that one. He what all this trouble's about?"

Ianto stood perfectly still, staring into the forming steam. Assuming he hadn't heard, Stephen continued, "You know, it's a, um...very modern world we live in...I won't fault you for--"

"Please," Ianto almost choked on the word, "don't...yeah, just don't." He was laughing. The last thing he wanted to hear right now was a lecture on the newly found acceptance of homosexuality.

"Right," The shopkeeper floundered for a moment, searching for the right words to say to this troubled lad before him. "In any case, he'd be a fool to leave a man like you, Ianto Jones." He missed the odd and empty look that crossed the man's face at hearing his full name.

Ianto shrugged a single shoulder, cocking his head. He watched the liquid pour out into a sage green mug, blacker than he ever preferred it, extra-strength. The way he hadn't made it in months. "I was just there to pass the time while he waited for his 'doctor.' Knew it as well as he did. Hard to remember things like that when he's around, though."

He'd argued this point from both sides, continually. A logical side of him knew how ridiculous it seemed, knew that his Jack could never have done that to him, maybe others...but him? Another side of him knew that, of course, this was jack they were talking about. He had no time for this. There were other things he should be worrying about, things that Jack would want him to be worrying about. Things the world needed him to worry about, even if they'd never realize what was happening. 'Mankind is really quite daft,' he mused.

Besides, it wasn't as though he was the only one that had been left behind. Jack's entire life had been a waiting period- him, Gwen, Torchwood. Earth. All of it, just waiting for his Doctor, helping out while he had nothing else to do. Now that he had a choice- well. Ianto obviously hadn't stood a chance; none of them had.

All that non-withstanding, he felt the need to remember Jack with respect. Captain Jack Harkness, undefeatable leader. The other feelings, those of betrayal and hurt, had to stay buried. At least until there was no alien crisis...which was pretty much never. Tiny slips at night were permissible, he figured, under the cover of his too-empty flat. He had to stay concentrated on this one, what with everyone else running around doing who-knew what. He was really getting tired of this new lack of communication they had all developed. Couldn't they have a sense of coherency by just being Torchwood? He was thinking too hard again; his headache was coming back. Now that he thought about it, the walls did seem to be pulsing with too much repetition of a single frequency.

Stephen seemed to notice the shift in his expression, chair scraping against tile as he pushed back, moving to Ianto to take his mug and set it down on the table. "Can I get you some painkillers or something? Call someone to take you home?"

"No, no..." He said quickly, "It's no better anywhere else." Seeing his vacant expression, Ianto went on, "It's Saxon. You said I'm not crazy? So believe me now. The tapping I mentioned--it's Saxon's doing. He's brain-washing us, I guess. As I told you, I don't rightly know what it is. But it's that bastard's fault. He wasn't here before. No personal records of him anywhere."

Stephen laughed, shaking his head. "Slow down there...what are you saying? He just decided to *exist* and suddenly he's Minister of Defense, one of the most popular men in politics?" He noted the grave, unblinking expression he was receiving, and he scoffed. "You're really serious! Alright, kid, so Saxon just appeared. Where'd he come from? And what reason would he have to make everyone hear...tapping? Tapping that most of us don't even notice."

"I wish I knew," he mumbled back, deflating. "But it's too strange. I keep looking at his ads over and over, his website, but. None of them follow. Here- look. Come with me."

He moved back into the busy little shopfront, taking the owner with him, asking everyone what they thought of Harold Saxon. 'Well. He's good, yeah?' They'd all smile. If they hadn't already been taping they would then, thinking about him. But whenever he asked them why- his stance on issues, his past, things he'd done to benefit them in his current career- they'd shrug and smile placidly. 'Dunno. I just think he's good. Don't you? He's good.'

"Do you see?" he asked quietly. "When have you ever known that many people to all agree so thoroughly on anything, especially politics? 'He's good,' nothing else."

"But. He IS good," Stephen answered, confusion scribbled across his features, a crease between his brows. "Isn't he?"

"I- I don't know. But I really don't think so."

"Why would you say that?" he snapped, a little too defensively. "Do you have any reasons to clue me in on? Anything at all?" He blinked. Ianto was staring at his hand. He looked down, and started. His hand had been rapidly tapping that beat, unbeknownst to him. "Oh God...it's true. What should I do, Ianto?"

He bit his lip, hunching his shoulders. "Hopefully it won't matter. Hopefully someone will stop him. But... But if he wins the election, and he's still around, I want you to leave. Go to the countryside, hide for a while. Leave me a number. Call you back when it's safe, if it's safe." He put on a smile, like he had for Tosh before, like he did for Gwen. "I'll even work your shifts while you're gone," knowing he'd never have time, "you'll come back to more regulars than you can count."

Stephen took the bait, uneasy relief smoothing his concern over. He relaxed his face, with some effort. It seemed to him that perhaps they both needed each other's facades. He nodded, a hint of a smile on his lips, making it seem easy. He spoke slowly. "I'll do that. Thank you, Ianto. Really...Thank you, on behalf of the world that will never know the face of their hero."

Ianto cast his eyes down, into his remorsefully empty mug. He was no hero. That was Jack's job. But no, people would have to rely on him now. No more assuming he was the useless file clerk. The one letting the pizza deliveries in with a false desk. Pretty face in the background, bringing everyone coffee. Tea Boy. He stood, taking the other man's mug along with his own. "Thank you for everything, Mr. Barrows. I wish you and your family well." He wondered if he should be feeling remorse for the Retcon he'd slipped in the coffee. Had he just jeopardized the man's family? Had Torchwood been too cloak and dagger? Or had it been trying to be, more like it. But--It was curious--he couldn't remember what he'd told the man.

In fact it was hard to remember anything quite clearly at this exact moment. He blinked furiously, vision tunneling, teetering sideways. Stephen caught him in one movement, sweeping him into large arms and carrying him back to the front room, where he lay him in one of the cushioned booths.

"Good afternoon!" The voice behind him called, sickly sweet and almost mockingly happy. The aging man spun in one move, even as he heard Ianto crying out in renewed pain. Harold Saxon, in the flesh.

"Good afternoon," Stephen stuttered back, squinting in confusion as the sedative starting taking effect. "Mr Saxon, sir. Can I get you coffee?" He leaned heavily against the table behind him, wincing at the high-pitched buzzing in his ear.

"No, don't bother," the man smiled, something offputting in his expression. If only someone could notice, instead of going abuzz with the man's very presence. "I just need to talk to Mr Jones, here." He grinned, all teeth, sitting across from the aching, writhing operative. "I have a mission for Torchwood, young man. Tell me, do you like mountains?"

THE END


End file.
